The Famous Comrades Marathon

Fifty-five brutal miles. Five torturous climbs. A ruthless clock. The Comrades Marathon may be the world's greatest race. But not because it's easy

Every run is a new adventure, and every race, like a Rorschach, exists only to expose some piece of us. The greater the race distance, the deeper the unpeeling. This makes South Africa's mountainous 55-mile Comrades Marathon a long and probing quest. I first heard about Comrades' length, hills, and amazing traditions four decades ago. Since then I have considered it the world's greatest footrace. But until last June, I didn't realize how much a race could reveal to me. Of me. Some races are humbling; this one stripped me bare.

The distance alone makes Comrades intimidating. The infamous climbs make it torturous. At midway, the course snakes upward through the Valley of a Thousand Hills, an English appellation as accurate as it is terrifying. This is the heart of KwaZulu-Natal province. The mightiest of these ascents is Inchanga, an unnerving drumroll of a Zulu word. Just beyond lie the Drakensberg Mountains, which gave life to the most famous lines of South African literature--lines that never fail to stun me with their simple beauty. Alan Paton was still director of a reform school when he wrote them on the first page of his masterwork, Cry, the Beloved Country: "There is a lovely road that runs from Ixopo into the hills. These hills are grass-covered and rolling, and they are lovely beyond any singing of it."

Last June, as I ran and walked through the Valley of a Thousand Hills, I snatched glances into the distant Drakensbergs and thought about Paton. He got it right. These hills are dazzling indeed--a crescendo of one sweet green slope rising above another. They are interrupted only by a few tumbling rivers, like the Duzi and Umgeni, and by white puffs of smoke from clusters of clay huts with thatch roofs. Looking out at these hills, I felt transported to a lush, untrammeled, and bygone era.

But then my hard, raspy breathing clawed me back. I heard groans and imprecations from runners around me. And I had a different thought: Paton was a novelist-poet. He took the train, for goodness sake, never once attempting to run these horrid hills. If he had, he would have seen them in another light. Trust me.

I don't know my way around durban, a sort of south African Miami Beach, but no matter. On Comrades Marathon morning, I simply walk out my hotel's back door at 4:30 a.m. and follow everyone else toward the starting line a mile away. The pace is relaxed now, no need to hurry. I have time to consider what brought me here.

The answer couldn't be simpler. The way I figure it, Comrades has to be the world's greatest race. I mean, it's 55 miles long--the type of distance that usually lures about, oh, 71 runners. Comrades has enough magnetism to draw 12,000. Plus, it has the most extraordinary traditions. There's the matter of race numbers and their colors, for instance. International runners get blue ones. Runners in their 10th Comrades wear yellow. You complete 10 and you get a green number for all future entries. You own this number. In perpetuity. No one but you will wear it again. Ever.

There's also the dramatic course closure that occurs precisely 12 hours after the start--that's a Comrades tradition some runners, for sure, could do without (see "Sorry, But..."). But perhaps the greatest of Comrades's rituals is the course switcheroo. In odd years the course drops down 2,300 feet from Pietermaritzburg to Durban. The next year it reverses itself, scrambling up into the hills. Try to imagine the Boston Marathon pulling this off. I ran Comrades once previously, in 1993, a Down year; last June's Up race was like a new and completely different experience, full of unexpected challenges.

En route to the starting line, I stop counting Comrades traditions when the music begins. No other race produces such an astonishing sound mix. A gaggle of South African club runners jogs past, singing high harmonies in the manner of Ladysmith Black Mambazo. Three months earlier, I had told a Ladysmith member that I was headed to Comrades. He shook his head slowly and let out a soft whistle. He knew about the race. Everyone in South Africa is a Comrades aficionado, thanks to the continuous 12-hour live national TV coverage. Twelve hours. Live. National TV.

This accounts for the brilliant spotlights that bathe us at the start, where the runners break into a spontaneous rendition of "Shosholoza." It's an old Zulu mining song, and its title means, roughly, "Keep going. Move faster on those mountains." It's followed by the pulsing Chariots of Fire theme. But all ears eagerly await the next sound, a cock's crow. In 1948, on the morning of his eighth Comrades, local runner Max Trimborn, one of 44 entrants that year, couldn't contain his nervous energy on the starting line. He needed to do something...anything. So he cupped his hands, filled his lungs, and issued a lusty rooster crow. The other runners so enjoyed this homey touch that they demanded repeat performances in subsequent years. Trimborn obliged for the next 32, sometimes adorning himself with feathers and a rooster vest. By the time of his death in 1985, Trimborn's crowing had been preserved on tape. These days, greatly amplified, it still starts the Comrades Marathon: "Cock-A-Doodle...Go!"

A race this long demands a plan and a goal. I've got both, but mainly the latter. The plan is to take it easy. (Duh.) While I haven't done any long runs, I'm in good shape, based on a recent 1:29 half-marathon. I aim to extend my endurance with walking breaks. When I feel good, I'll run. When I get tired, I'll walk. You see how easy these ultramarathons are?
My primary goal is much more specific: I want to run all the way up Polly Shortts. No, I didn't say Polly's shorts, but now I must explain. Animal lovers can name Africa's "Big Five" in a flash--elephant, buffalo, leopard, lion, and rhinoceros. Those who run the Up Comrades are just as quick with its Big Five hills--Cowies, Fields, Bothas, Inchanga, and Polly Shortts, the last and most treacherous. When I first heard these names, back in my college days, I could barely suppress a chuckle. They seemed so plebeian. The hills I feared had monikers like Heartbreak, Cardiac, and Doomsday. Polly Shortts? I couldn't picture anything but a girl in a miniskirt. (Hey, it was the 1960s, okay?)

The day before last year's race, I had lunch with nine-time winner Bruce Fordyce, a South African who's regarded as the greatest-ever Comrades runner. Fordyce, now 51 and a 24-time Comrades finisher, is a low-key guy with a dry delivery and a droopy, almost sad face. I told him that I had no particular finish-time goal. I simply wanted to run up Polly Shortts. All the way up. I have run Mount Washington, Pikes Peak, and the Empire State Building with ease, I explained. I couldn't see any reason why a hill named Polly should present difficulties.

Fordyce's face came alive, breaking into a wicked grin. His blue eyes glinted. "Oh, you'll not be running up Pollys," he said. "By the time you get there, you won't have much run left in you."

After the cock's crow, I jog cautiously through the cool, dark streets of Durban, concerned about tripping over other runners or their discarded clothing. The first miles pass easily, almost eerily. It's quiet in the throng of runners. Maybe no one's awake yet. Or everyone's simply harboring their energies for the long day ahead. I see the occasional Zulu woman on the sidewalk, collecting shirts and sweaters tossed off by warming runners. Gray-bearded Hindu men in turbans watch passively. Durban is a polyglot town. Mahatma Gandhi lived near here for 20 years and in 1906 began using nonviolent demonstrations to protest South African law. A decade later, he took this tactic home to India.

In these early miles, there's little room for walking breaks. The roads are narrow, the pack thick. After 5-K, I spot several openings and scoot to the side of the road to walk for a minute or two. I seem to be alone in this approach. Everyone else is still running. That's okay. I'm in no rush to beat anyone. The more strength I save now, the more I'll have later, when I really want it, when I meet my Polly. A bright sun rises in the east, bathing the verdant countryside in brilliant colors. All's well with the world. "This is easy," I tell myself. "You can do this all day."

At about nine miles, I reach the first hill, Cowies. It's no big deal--just a sharp turn and a long, gradual slope up and around a big shoulder. I take a few short walk breaks. All fine. Just a few more miles to the half-marathon mark.

The first killer hill, fields, begins at about 14 miles. It's long, steep, and grinding. Since almost everyone is walking, I decide to do the same and make some new friends. That's one of the great things about an ultra. When you go this long and slow, there's time for bonding. I spot two middle-age guys in identical singlets. Running with buddies is an important theme at Comrades--dare I say a tradition? Comrades was started in 1921 to pay tribute to South Africa's WWI vets. These days, "comrades" refers more often to your training and racing partners. If you get a bunch of them together for what we could call a "pace team," it's known as a "bus." That's the best way to run Comrades: Hop on a bus.

I ask the two guys if they're friends. The stories tumble out. One is running his fifth Comrades, the other is a newbie. I jokingly inquire as to what took him so long. "I had to find something to celebrate my 50th birthday," he says. "Some men get divorced, some men buy race cars, and some men set sail around the world. I decided to run the Up Comrades."

I can't help thinking that most guys who turn 50 choose to sit down and wait for the moment to pass. But I keep that thought to myself. Mr. Fifty is looking pretty beat up already, and I doubt he'll appreciate any attempts at humor or perspective.

I'm starting to feel thirsty, so I head for a water table. If you are running a South African race for the first time, you will long remember an unexpectedly vexatious aspect to it: Trying to drink the water. At Comrades, the water is supplied--all 250,000 servings of it--in four-ounce "sachets." You could visualize these as oversize energy-gel packs, but you'll come closer by picturing a small water balloon. If you are South African, you reach for a sachet, bite the corner, drink deeply, squirt a refreshing spray over your head, and continue merrily up the road. If you are American, things don't go so smoothly. You grab a sachet, gnaw on it until your teeth are worn to the gumline, and get nothing for your efforts. This elicits a vocabulary Mama wouldn't endorse. Your temperature rises, more from exasperation than dehydration.

Ten yards after you toss the damn thing away, you step on a sachet that was discarded by a previously unsuccessful drinker. It bursts with a loud pop, soaking your socks and shoes. This does nothing to improve your opinion of sachets.

I quench my thirst on cups of Coke and begin to climb up Bothas, which follows soon after Fields. Or maybe they are the same. I suspect some devious Comrades mapmaker of using two names to imply a respite between hills. This is a total fiction. When I consult my course map later, I see clearly that there is one undulating grade that rises 1,000 feet in 10 miles. I find nothing restful about this. Two miles past Bothas, we cross the marathon mark. And I'm feeling it. Not a good sign.

Miles covered: 26.2 Elapsed time: 5:10 Mind: With the worst hills done and gone, maybe it's time to think negative splits. Body: Thank goodness the second half is mostly flat. Overall: When this thing is done, it would be nice to take a vacation. At the beach. With lounge chairs and a nearby bar.
A mile beyond the marathon mark, we run through the Flora Halfway Celebration, basically the longest balloon arch/water stop/musical review I've ever seen. It's at least 200 meters from one end to the other. I tarry, drink a little Coke, eat half a baked potato (a Comrades specialty), and try to relax. This might be possible except for one supreme obstacle: Inchanga. It fills the view ahead--climbing, curving left, and soaring ever higher like a roller-coaster on steroids.

Yes, the Alan Paton scenery in the distance is spectacular, but an ultra crushes your appreciation for aesthetics. It turns you inward, where a nagging voice says, "Put your head down. Focus. Get through this mile...then the next one." I walk most of Inchanga. It takes 30 minutes. All I see is black asphalt with narrow zigzag fissures. I'm still thinking: "Save yourself for Polly."

Beyond Inchanga, we pass the Ethembeni ("Place of Hope") School for blind and physically handicapped children. Its students line the roadside in their wheelchairs, on canes, on crutches. No Comrades runner, no matter how fatigued, can pass here without acknowledging his or her own good fortune. I jog over to the kids and slap fives, as many as I can. Several days earlier, I had met Jeff Wells, the owner of a Fleet Feet running-shoe store in Nashville, Tennessee, who had just delivered a $25,000 check to Ethembeni. "It was the single most emotional day in my 48-year life," he told me. Now, Wells is a couple of miles behind me on the Comrades course. When he reaches Ethembeni, I learn later, he receives a welcome so tumultuous that, after 10 minutes of hugging and crying, he had a hard time forcing himself back to the road.

These smiling, energetic kids are inspirational, but I'm sinking fast. For some lame reason, this portion of the Up course, from about 30 miles to 45 miles, is loosely called "the flats." I can think of choicer words for it. This stretch includes the highest point, Umlaas Road, at 2,854 feet, and no flat sections at all. I plod up four or five unnamed hills--things are starting to get fuzzy by this point--that are easily the match of Boston's Heartbreak Hill. Each is followed by a punishing descent. Nasty.

At 40 miles, I catch Dave Obelkevich, a 62-year-old retired violinist-music teacher from New York City. Obelkevich is one of those chatty and slightly loopy ultrarunners who just doesn't know when to stop. He's run 31 straight New York City Marathons, more than 150 ultras, and five Comrades. Early in the race, we bumped into each other several times, then went our separate ways. His way was always ahead of me. Ten miles later, I'd find myself at his side again. Like now. "How ya doing?" Obelkevich asks with a smile, even though I notice that he's listing 15 degrees to starboard. I hope I don't look that bad. But I might.

"I'm scared," I reply.

"Why?"

"Because I feel like crap, and there's still a long way to go."

"Oh, don't worry about that," he chirps. "We all feel the same. It's perfectly normal. You'll make it. See you at the finish."

Then he staggers off ahead of me. I don't catch him again.

Miles covered: 39.3 Elapsed time: 8 hours (2:50 for the last 13.1) Mind: This sucks. Body: This sucks. Overall: This--how should I put it?--sucks.

Polly, polly, where are you? I've been walking for three miles, from about the 45-mile mark. It's a desperate move--one that I hope will conserve what little strength I have left. Maybe, I tell myself, maybe I can still run up Polly Shortts.

The sun is high in a cloudless sky, the temperature in the mid-70s, and most sensible South Africans have settled into lawn chairs, cracked open a beer, and fired up the barbie. They're relaxing at course side, under an umbrella, enjoying the Youth Day holiday. A good barbecue is the unofficial national pastime in South Africa, where it's called a braai. And Comrades provides the perfect spectacle--a long, entertaining parade.

As I walk toward Polly, wondering where she is and how she will appear, I try to puzzle out what has gone wrong. This yields nothing. I'm in good shape, I've followed a conservative pacing strategy, and I've eaten and consumed fluids judiciously. Normally, I'm an ace at assessing my fitness. In those predict-your-time races, I always take a top prize. Today, however, I have lost all will. I don't have blisters, cramps, creaky knees, or any of the usual runner afflictions. I'm not dizzy and light-headed in a bonking sort of way. But my brain has gone AWOL; it won't tell my legs to get going. I can't explain this; I am merely reporting.

A large signboard at the bottom of Polly Shortts announces her entrance. I lift my eyes--a mistake. Ahead is the sharpest hill of the day, rising wantonly upward until it slithers out of view. I'm guessing there's more of the same over the horizon. I see hundreds of runners. All are walking. And there is no chance, despite my planning and resolve and name mockery and chatting with Bruce Fordyce, that I will run Polly Shortts. Not a chance. My tank has passed empty. So I trudge onward, sidling over to a green-numbered runner, one of the veterans. I can't stop myself from whining. I explain how, prior to beginning today's ordeal, I had believed the Up Comrades might be easier than the Down. We all know the perils and pains of downhill running, right?
"Listen to me, mate," he says. "This is my seventeenth Comrades, and all those years I've heard runners talk about how the Up run is easier on the body. But I'm telling you, it's not. This Up run is just one big piece of hard work. It keeps coming at you and coming and coming, and it never gives you a break. Never."

We pass someone, standing at the side of the road, hoisting a huge pink poster board. It doesn't contain any words. Just a big question mark--"?" The same thought has occurred to me.

I walk every step of Polly Shortts, and every step of the remaining six miles to the finish. The whole world waddles past me, or at least it feels that way. I get passed by tall, skinny guys with thick dreadlocks hanging to their waists. I get passed by short, fat guys in grass skirts. I get passed by lean, elegant women with purple fright wigs, and short, fat women in tutus. As we get closer to Pietermaritzburg, the course turns blessedly, run-ably downhill, and I still can't break out of my walk. A spectator bolts from her lawn chair, and races to the sidewalk, her eyes fixed on mine. "You're a hero," she yells into my face. "Don't stop. You can do it." I'm too tired to turn and see if there's another, worthier runner behind me, as I imagine there must be.

A half mile from the end of the race, I hear the first faint echoes from the finish-line announcer. Race winners Oleg Kharitonov and Elena Nurgalieva have broken the tape more than four hours ago. Here, in another 60 minutes, running's most dramatic moment will be played out. At precisely 11 hours, 59 minutes on the time clock, the director of the Comrades Marathon Association will emerge from a tent and march to the finish line. There, dressed in a dark jacket and tie, he will turn around, his back facing the oncoming stream of runners. He will raise a gun and wait for the seconds to tick down.

All around, pandemonium breaks loose. Thousands of spectators stare at the executioner, imploring, "No. No. Don't do it." Then they look the other way, to the frantic flow of runners struggling for the finish. Some are sprinting with joyously upraised arms, some walking, some being carried by teammates, some literally crawling on their hands and knees. The crowd breaks into a rhythmic, throbbing chant: "Go...Go...Go...Go..." The atmosphere is electric, the suspense building. "Long before someone invented 'Reality TV,' we had the real deal right here at Comrades," race manager Renee Smith had told me two days earlier. The national television audience skyrockets in the final minutes, as all South Africa tunes in for the tense Comrades conclusion. Who will make it? Who won't?

At 12:00:00 on the race clock, the gun is fired, and the Comrades Marathon is over. Those who fail to break 12 hours will receive no medal for their effort. No time. They won't appear in the newspaper agate or the official results program. They'll get no credit toward their "green." They will become, in effect, in this country with its wretched history of human-rights violations, a nonperson. A nonrunner. If you want, you could tell your friends that you ran Comrades. You could say you finished in, oh, 12:20. But you didn't. Because there is no record of it. You would have been better off spending the day around the braai.

There is some solace only for the first nonfinisher. He or she becomes an instant hero, interviewed live on TV and pictured on the front page of every newspaper. To many South Africans, the Comrades runner who goes all that distance, for nothing, is more symbolic, of something, than the race winner. That's another great tradition--one I think we can all embrace, even if we're not sure what it means.

Just once, an American has filled this spot. In 1997, 50-year-old Georgia Gustafson, from Alaska, finished Comrades in 11 hours and four-tenths of a second. (The cutoff time was increased by an hour in 2003.) Gustafson doesn't have a Comrades finisher's medal, and only she knows her time. But, oh, the memories! She was mobbed by the South African media and didn't understand why. It sunk in slowly, but remained for the week she spent touring South Africa. "Everywhere I went, people recognized me and stopped to say, 'You're the one,'" Gustafson remembers. "I received kisses from total strangers and requests for autographs. I way exceeded my 15-minutes-of-fame quota."

I will beat the 12-hour cutoff by 55 minutes, but I've also run the worst race of my life, and I don't know why. This bugs me, but there's nothing I can do about it. When I finally reach the City Oval cricket grounds on the edge of Pietermaritzburg and run through the corridor of spectators thumping on tin advertising signs, I can only console myself that I didn't quit. I considered it a hundred times, especially when eyeballing the vans full of DNFs as they motored to the finish. But quitting is too easy. Feeding yourself rationalizations for quitting is too easy. I have done both before, sad to say, so I know. Sometimes the best you can do is...not very good at all, and those are probably the most important times to stick it out.

So I did. I walked every step of the last 10 miles, passing a kilometer mark every 10 minutes--a pace of 16 minutes per mile. It took me two hours and 40 minutes to cover those last 10 miles. That's way beyond a personal worst; it's a personal black hole. I'm not proud of the way I finished, but I am proud that I did finish. And the reward was great. I've got what I wanted, what I wanted badly--a Comrades Up medal. Every runner should have one.

Miles covered: 55 Elapsed time: 11 hours, 5 minutes (3:05 for the last 13.1) Mind: Whew, nice to be sitting down. Body: Not so sure I can stand up again. Overall: Thank goodness that's done.